Bound
by NoLifeKing66
Summary: This is the story of how Alucard, also known as Count Dracula and Vlad Ţepeş, was defeated by Abraham Van Helsing, how the mighty No Life King was coerced into servitude for the Hellsing family, and how he began his path toward redemption. Part II up.
1. Part I: Defeated

_Hellsing _is an original work of Kouta Hirano and _Dracula_ is a work of the late, great Bram Stoker

Part I: Defeated

Abraham Van Helsing clutched the wooden stake firmly in his right hand, and the iron hammer firmly in his left. He placed the the point of the stake over the vampire's heart and prepared to strike it with the hammer. Slowly, dliberately, he spoke, "All flesh is as grass, and all the comeliness thereof is the flower of field. The grass withereth, the flower fadeth, but the word of our God shall abideth forever!"

The hammer came down fast and hard, driving the stake deep into the vampire's chest, puncturing its heart. Copious amounts of blood from its pierced heart welled and spurted up around the stake and gushed out of its gaping mouth. The vampire coughed and gagged, choking on its own life. It writhed in agony, its body shaking and quivering and twisting in wild contortions. Finally, it stopped moving and lay still in its coffin.

The vampire opened its eyes...

The vampire opened his eyes and saw his attacker standing before him. Blood was leaking from his mouth and nose. Having lost so much, his vision was blurred. All he could make out was the silhouette of a man. His red, gleaming eyes filled with tears—tears of blood—which spilled out and ran down his pale cheeks, leaving shimmering, crimson trails in their wake. His long, raven-black hair, once soft and silky smooth, was disheveled, and his clothes, once stately, were utterly ruined. Unable to bear the intense pain of the stake piercing his chest, which seized his mind in a viselike grip with every breath he took, and lacking the strength to assert himself, the vampire spoke softly, like a discomfited child, "Have I been...bested...sir?"

"Yes, you are bested," the man said. His voice was strong and firm, and carried with it the heavy burden of authority. If the vampire were a child, then this man was certainly a parent, or had been at one time in his life. He was certainly not English, as his compatriots were. His words were fringed with a foreign accent. German, the vampire thought. "This is not a nightmare you will be awaking from," he continued. Laying still had lessened the pain, and suddenly the vampire could see clearly again. The man before him was of medium weight, strongly built, with his shoulders set back over a broad, deep chest. The head was noble, well-sized, and large behind the ears. His forehead was broad and fine, rising at first almost straight and then sloping back—such a forehead that the ashen hair could not possibly tumble over it, but fell naturally back and to the sides. The man's face was finely lined, the lips were tight and the mouth resolute. His chin was hard, square, and covered in a fine stubble. Big, ice blue eyes were set widely apart, their gaze stern, steady, and unwavering. The vampire thought his features distinctly indicative of thought and power, and decided that he must have been quite handsome in his youth.

So this was the man who had united his enemies under a common cause. This was the man who had equipped them and taught them how to hunt the night. This was the man who led them. This was the man who had pursued the vampire all the way across Europe, outwitting him at every turn. This was the man who had outmaneuvered his gypsies in a race against time, a race against the sunset, cornering them and beating them here, in one of the biggest, oldest graveyards in Transylvania, not far from the vampire's castle.

The vampire tilted his head westward. Even this slight movement made him wince. He lay still again, silent, contemplating these strange events. He could see, out of the corner of his eye, the sun, dipping deep below the horizon, its downward way marked by myriad clouds of every evening color—flame, violet, blue, green, and all the tints of gold. They were receding. Already here and there were masses not large, but of seemingly absolute blackness, in all sorts of shapes, as well outlined as colossal silhouettes. The twinkling stars were just barely managing to peek through the widening abyss. This was supposed to be the moment of my triumph, he thought. Strange, and ironic, that things should turn out this way.

"Your castles are plundered, your dominions are in ruin, your servants destroyed," the man said. His words were true. The vampire's castles and domions had long since fallen into disrepair and his gypsies lay sprawled across the Transylvanian countryside, blood spilling forth from their broken bodies into growing puddles beneath them, sinking into the soil, saturating the earth. They had sworn him their allegiance and had been loyal to their deaths. Still, he found he could not weep for them. The man continued, "And the girl has fled this place forevermore" He paused, then said, "She will _never_ be yours, Count!" The vampire winced again, but this time not from any physical ache. It was the thought, the memory of _her_, that was painful.

Abraham Van Helsing regarded the vampire keenly. Its red eyes, usually bright and gleaming, were dim and cloudy. It was dangerously close to its final death. Abraham clenched his fist tightly. He raised his arm, preparing to deliver the final blow. Indignantly, he brought his arm down.

The vampire's eyes widened, fearful of the incoming blow. He was too weak to move. There was nothing he could do to prevent it. When it hit, is was like nothing the vampire had ever experienced. The force of the blow was so powerful, the vampire was sent flying backward through the air. Torrents of blood spilt forth from every orifice of his body, particularly from the wound in his chest. He could hear a loud, terrible, agonizing scream, but was unsure from whom it had come—he could only assume it was himself. The pain was so excruciating it was almost exquisite, so punishing it was almost pleasurable. The vampire thought, for a moment, that if he were to die then, he would have been content. But the thought of bliss was fleeting, the pain was relentless, and the vampire wasn't ready to spend an eternity in Hell just yet.

No, the vampire thought. I am not ready to die, yet. I cannot. I will not.

Abraham Van Helsing stood up and rushed forward as the vampire fell through the air. Reaching out for it, he grabbed it by it by the collar of its shirt, where white, bloody flesh met white, bloody fabric. His grip was strong, firm and unyielding. The vampire's blood stained his gloves. He held it mere inches in front of his face and looked into its eyes. Their mingling gazes were like fire and ice, but the fire was burning out.

"You are judged and found wanting, Vampire-King!" he shouted. The vampire, this creature of darkness, the greatest of monsters, seemed so frail and childlike in his grasp. He shook the vampire frantically and, raising the tone of his voice to a from an angry shout to a deafening roar, repeated himself, "You have nothing! You _are_ nothing!" Abraham could see his reflection in the vampire's eyes. Their red glow had all but disappeared.

Finally, the vampire closed his eyes and lost consciousness, the man's word's echoing in his mind...

"You _are_ nothing."


	2. Part II: Imprisoned

_Hellsing _is an original work of Kouta Hirano and _Dracula_ is a work of the late, great Bram Stoker

Part II: Imprisoned

Slowly, the vampire opened his eyes. He couldn't see anything. Even with his acute nightvision, he couldn't see anything at all. But he could hear. Voices. People speaking. He could hear them speaking, but he could not understand what they were saying. All he heard was muffled, incoherent sonority. But he could tell from its volume, it was close. The people were close to him. He also heard horses' hooves clopping, and wooden wheels spinning, grinding gravel beneath them. The vampire tried to focus, tried to collect his thoughts. It was dark. He lay on his back in a small, confining space. A coffin, he realized. A coffin in a carriage. He could hardly move. The coffin was constricting, and his body was racked with pain. There was a foul taste in his mouth, and a terrible pressure in his chest. Then he remembered what had happened to him—he'd been staked. Staked by the man who'd united his enemies and pursued him to the end of the world. The man who'd defeated him.

He tried to flex the muscles in his hand, found that he still could, moved his fingers one at a time, then all together. With an effort, he lifted his hand to his chest. He felt his chest, felt for the hole in the middle of it, for the stake that had pierced his heart. He found it easily enough, a round, wooden peg protruding from the center of his torso. It was smaller now, the vampire thought. Shorter. The man must have cut it down so that he could put him into the coffin without having to remove it. The vampire could not remove it himself. He let it go, and let his hand fall limp at his side.

He didn't know why he was still alive, why his life had been spared. All he knew was that he _was _alive, and that he was moving. He didn't know where he was going, where his captors were taking him. All he knew was that he felt helpless. He felt weak. He felt disoriented. He felt himself slipping into unconsciousness once again...

Slipping into the past...

His country was on fire. The flames rose high up into the sky, turning it a deep, dark red. Embers flitted through the air like butterflies on burning wings. If it had been any other country, he would have though it a beautiful sight. But this was his county. This was his homeland.

He could smell the reek of burning houses and fresh gore, the sulfur of cannon fire, the conflagrations of tent and bridge and horseflesh. The scent of death. The scent of war. It was a putrid stench, but he'd grown used to it, over the years. He'd razed many villages during his war against the Turks.

Now he'd lost his war. Now it was his villages that were being razed.

The Turks dragged him through their make-shift camp, bare-backed, locked in a pillory. Their soldiers mocked him, laughed at him, spat at him, pelted him with rocks and stones. Refusing to look down, he saw them. He saw every one of them. He saw their fluttering banners, the Star and the Crescent. He saw the splashes of blood on the legs of their horses. He saw the shimmer of the firelight on their scimitars and chain mail. He saw their pointed helmets. He saw the the beautiful and mutilated young heads, faces, bodies. He saw the Sultan's janissaries, who had been recruited from the various Christian nations the Turks had conquered and occupied. He saw their stone-cold faces. He would not look away. He was humiliated, but he would not give them the satisfaction of knowing it. They dragged him to their execution block. His people's mangled corpses were hanging from the trees on either side, swinging back and forth, saturating the earth with their blood. His escorts tossed him roughly, callously onto the ground. The executioner was a big, hairy, sweaty man. His chest was bare and his head was covered by a black bag. He held his axe as if it were a toy. His favorite toy.

The executioner regarded the prisoner keenly. He was lanky, but well-muscled, and wore a golden cross around his neck. His long dark hair and hawkish features were typical of the Romanian nobility. So, this was Vlad the Impaler? The executioner had heard much about this man and had expected something different. Something more impressive. He snorted and said, "Ölmeye hazırmısın, Kazıklı Bey?" _Are you ready to die, Impaling Prince?_

Vlad didn't hear him. All he could hear were the agonized cries of his countrymen. He'd spent his entire life protecting Christianity from the Muslim Turks. He'd told his men that everyone had to fight in God's name, that God did not hear their prayers, but saw their actions, and that sooner or later, God would come down, and bring with Him the New Jerusalem. And fight they did. They fought in God's name, and they died in God's name. They were sacrificed. He had sacrificed them, and he would sacrifice every one of them in order to bring down the New Jerusalem. Now they were dead. All of them. Now he was going to die, too.

He had failed. He had failed to bring down the New Jerusalem. He'd fought in God's name, he'd sacrificed his men in order to achieve his dream, and God had looked the other way. God had betrayed him.

The executioner raised his axe. He grunted with the effort. Vlad knew the end was near. He wanted to close his eyes, but he resisted. Instead, he looked out at the devastated landscape, his scorched and beseiged homeland. He looked at the blood that had pooled up around him, the blood of his men, the blood of his people. Their agonized cries were beginning to fade. Suddenly, he heard a voice. It was calling out to him, speaking to him from the back of his mind. It was his own voice, and yet it was not. _"Drink the blood,"_ it said. _"Drink the blood and live forever."_

Vlad did not have time to consider his options. He had to make a decision, and he had to make it now. The man in him was telling him that this whole situation was a part of God's plan for him, that he should just resign and accept his fate. But there was something else in him now, something that did not want to resign. Something that felt betrayed. Something that wanted revenge. Something that wanted revenge against God. It was growing quickly, feeding off of his outrage. Before he knew it, it had swallowed him whole.

Slowly, deliberately, Vlad leaned forward, stuck out his tongue, and began lapping up the blood from the ground. He'd tasted the salty copper tang of blood before, but this time it was different. Somehow, it was sweet. Sweeter than anything he'd ever tasted before. Along with the new taste came a new sensation. He could feel the blood sliding down his throat, slipping into his stomach, permeating his organs, settling into his each and every cell. It felt so fulfilling. It was as if he was drinking life itself, as if he had taken life itself into his body, as if life itself was warming him, strengthening him. It was unlike anything he'd ever felt before.

Swiftly, the executioner brought his axe down. Vlad could feel it on the back of his neck.

That was the last thing he would remember.

Slowly, the vampire opened his eyes. He couldn't see anything. Even with his acute nightvision, he couldn't see anything at all. But he could hear. The lapping of water. The leaping of waves outside. The sound of men stamping overhead as they ran about. The creaking of a chain and the loud tinkle as the check of the capstan fell into the ratchet.

He was still in his coffin and he was still moving, but he was not in a carriage. He was on a boat. He could feel it drifting up and down as it sailed across a turbulent sea.

His enemies had defeated him, but they had not killed him. They had imprisoned him in a coffin. He feared, for an instant, that they were going to toss the coffin overboard, but his fear was quickly dispelled. If they were going to kill him, he figured, they would have done it in Transylvania. They wouldn't have wasted their time imprisoning him and shipping him across the ocean when they could have killed himand returned home overland, by train, which would have been faster and easier. They wouldn't have wasted the effort.

They must have some sort of purpose for me, he thought. He did not know what it was. He did not know if he wanted to. All he knew was that he could do nothing to stop them. He could do nothing to defend himself. He could do nothing to change his fate. All he could do was wait.

The vampire closed his eyes and waited.


End file.
